


Diminished Capacity

by fishingboatblues



Series: You Always Leave Me When The Sun Comes Out [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: And Ford has been in love with his brother for his entire life, M/M, References to Prostitution, Wherein being Amnesiac switches on some of Stanley's survival instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingboatblues/pseuds/fishingboatblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All this is a neurological reaction, he knows. There are pathways in Stanley’s brain that have been trained to act a certain way, it’s a survival instinct, to make oneself useful to someone in a position of power. Stan is scared and vulnerable, almost like a child except, really, really not if his burning gaze and dilated eyes are any indication. Stanley is reacting to stimuli in a way his brain has practically programmed into him, it probably doesn’t help that Ford himself is giving mixed messages. The kind of messages that if Stanley had ever dared to look for would’ve found years ago when they were teens, he would’ve noticed easily how Ford’s glances lingered and how his hands itched to touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diminished Capacity

**Author's Note:**

> First Stancest fic and I think I really hurt myself writing this, ouch. My feelings may never recover.

Ford feels awkward in his brother’s clothing, like a poor man’s imitation, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The latter comparison is weak at best, he knows, he’s always been the darker of the two of them and Stanley’s sacrifice just goes to show the true depth of his heart, the obvious goodness buried and hidden inside. Stanley’s innocence has never been more apparent than now, it’s in how he looks at things with childish awe, it’s in how he reacts to the kids despite not knowing them. It’s in how he smiles despite the fear dancing in his eyes.

The walk back to the Shack is long, longer now that the town is in disarray and he catches the way Stanley looks at him during. He looks at him as if Ford’s the leader of this group he’s found himself in, he looks like someone unsure of his place, on top of who he is or _was_. It’s all relative really.

They’re half way there when tiredness truly gnaws at his bones, it has been a long day for everyone and he can still feel the phantom pain of electricity licking at his skin. He sighs and looks to Dipper and Mabel. “Perhaps it’s prudent we take a break.” He suggests.

Mabel looks at him with concern, she’s been doing that a lot since the truth about Stanley’s mind had been revealed. They may not know each other as well as him and Dipper do but she cares and that’s enough, it _has_ to be enough. “Are you okay?”

“A tad tired.” He answers easily. “But I’m more concerned about…” He trails off, his eyes glancing at Stanley, who, in that moment, is oblivious to his brother’s concern.

Mabel nods, a ‘say no more’ expression on her young face. She shares a meaningful glance with Dipper and then turns to the rest of the group. “Let’s take a few guys, the Shack’s not going to disappear!”

They listen to her and split up among themselves to talk about the day, hopefully finding comfort in one another despite their hard won victory. _Stanley’s_ hard won victory. Stanley finds him quickly when Ford’s running his fingers through Mabel’s hair, under the guise of combing through the knots. He knows she needs the reassurance and security just as much as he does.

“Hey, uh. That big guy said that suit you’re wearing is mine?” He asks awkwardly. “Could we switch? This sweater is kinda giving me the sweats.”

He nods lamely at the request and leaves his niece reluctantly, he watches as she rushes to Dipper’s side and wraps her arms around him. The boy welcomes the affection and leans back into her touch and it only serves to make Ford homesick for a home he doesn’t have.

Stan looks back at him, more and somehow _less_ of an open book than he’s ever been.

They duck out into a denser part of the forest, somewhere private. Stanley has never really been uncomfortable with his body, except in their more childish years, and even then he had always taken a perverse pleasure in people seeing his ‘unattractive’ body. He had a thing for shocking people, something that hadn’t died out, even in the forty years they had spent apart.

The need for privacy comes from the simple need to protect the kids, the last thing they need to see is the marks of torture upon his body, and the bruises most assuredly marring Stan’s. Even without remembering them Stan clearly still has that protective instinct about him, which is something that saddens and pleases Ford in equal measure. His brother is still his brother, even without his memories, some things simply manage to survive even memory. Some things clearly _are_ soul deep.

Ford has already undone the bowtie around his neck by the time he hears his trench coat hit the floor, he does his best not to let his eyes wander to Stan. They had already done enough of that whilst in Bill’s lair.

“Goddammit!” His twin curses with shaking hands and Ford’s eyes swivel to glance at him. Stanley has always had a bigger frame than him and it appears they had failed to take that into account when swapping their clothes. Ford’s red sweater has attached itself to his brother like a parasitic leech and is refusing to come off, no matter how hard his brother tries.

Ford’s eyes soften as he watches Stanley act like a cat with a collar on, trying everything he can to be rid of the accursed fabric. He sighs and moves forward offering his hand to Stanley who looks at his hand weirdly. In that moment Ford realizes this is the first time in Stan’s recollection he has ever seen Ford’s six fingers.

“Woah.” Stanley remarks with a tilted head and eyes wide. He reaches out almost subconsciously and all Ford wants to do is run away. What will Stanley’s true reaction be to Ford’s abnormality without a life of brotherly concern to overshadow his gut reaction?

To Ford’s surprise all he does is poke his hand like an obnoxious pre-teen child. “You got an extra finger each?” He questions. “That’s pretty cool.”

At that Ford’s heart breaks, the knowledge that Stan had never lied to him, at least not about his hands, strikes him with a white hot intensity. He pulls his hand away and says the words he had been meaning to. “Would you like some help with that?” He asks, his shoulders moving in a shrug to gesture to the red sweater making their lives more difficult.

At his offer Stan’s face becomes considering and somewhat ambiguous, Ford doesn’t know this expression. It looks bone deep and full of something like concern, but it’s his brother’s next words that make him pause. “Ah, so it’s like _that_.” He remarks to himself.

Ford simply frowns, for once not being able to follow whatever conclusion Stan’s mind has come to. He ignores the comment or, at the very least, does his best to do so.

He reaches out but doesn’t touch until Stanley gives a nod. His fingers worm their way into the fabric as he slides his hands up Stanley’s arms, it’s always the sleeves that cause the most trouble. His fingertips skim noticeably scarred skin and he can feel the brush of Stanley’s hair on all six of his knuckles. The feeling should be innocuous, hardly anything of note but it makes Ford sweat and need to shift on his feet.

He hates his lack of composure, he hates how easily he has managed to pervert a moment of vulnerability, how easily his mind falls into patterns it shouldn’t. He had thought himself better than this, better than whoever this base creature is that controls his body. He shivers at the thought of possession, Bill coming quickly to mind.

Stanley notices the shiver and Ford can feel Stan’s resulting reaction as goosebumps jump up to meet his fingers. Stanley catches his eye and Ford feels suffocated and trapped in a way he would’ve begged for years ago, if given the chance. He gulps and speeds up their progress, keen to get this over and done with before he can do any further damage or give any more hints as to his feelings. Stan has always been more perceptive about strangers than in regards to certain aspects of Ford, and in this moment Ford is very much a stranger to the other man. It's a dangerous yet provocative position to be in, he muses, despite all the guilt the thought causes.

Once Ford has finished divesting Stanley of his sweater he steps away and continues on with his own clothing. He starts on Stanley's patented Mr Mystery outfit, the one that still smells of his brother's skin. It's an outfit that he'd never thought he'd have to wear, but the world has a tendency to throw you into situations you'd never expect.

Yet again the world throws him another curve ball but this time it's in the way Stanley’s arms come up to pluck at his buttons. “W-what are you doing?” Ford asks, moving away from calloused hands he doesn’t know nearly as well as he wants to.

“Returning the favour?” He replies. “I don’t know much of anything but isn’t that kind of a _thing_? You scratch my back and I scratch yours?”

Stanley’s hands come up again and Ford places his own atop them, holding those wandering appendages still. Ford is left speechless and immediately chastises himself for not taking this into consideration when accepting the request to swap clothes. “You really don’t need to.” He replies, face feeling warmer than the waning summer sun suggests it should.

Stan shakes his head, still stubborn despite all that he’s suffered, still stubborn despite not knowing his reasons for being so. “I’m not the type for owing anybody anything, or ‘least I don’t think I am.” He proclaims, finger nails making ghastly noises against the plastic of the suit’s buttons. He’s not taking it off without permission at least, Ford counts that as something of a success.

Ford sighs and resolves to just give in, there’s no use in arguing with his brother. There’s no use in arguing with his brother when it will only prolong this already arduous task of switching clothing. The top half of the suit comes off with less fanfare than Ford anticipated, he had thought Stanley disrobing him, if only slightly, would only bring awkwardness in its wake.

His chest is bare when he licks his dry lips and leans away from his twin, the twin that’s looking at him with consideration. “Thank you.” He tells the other man seriously and when Stan fails to react in any way he feels hope die in its cradle.

He takes a moment to calm himself, he refuses to lose himself to despair, he refuses to succumb to the sadness pervading every pore, every single cell and nuclei of his body.  He refuses to give in to the melancholic beating of his heart. He refuses to cry; he refuses to cry because it’s unfair to the man standing not a meter away, he refuses to cry because he knows if he starts he won’t ever stop.

He shakes his head and notices that Stanley is already ahead of him, the younger twin has already divested himself of his trousers and Stanford is still just standing there like some idiot. He feels irritation flood his mind, all of that annoyance directed at himself, he’d let his own damned mind deter him from such a simple task. It was frankly embarrassing how pathetic he was being.

His hand moves to his trousers but he pauses when he feels a heated stare land on him. He turns to look at his brother, a question lingering in his eyes and Stanley looks back at him with a molotov of emotions stirring in his own. He looks scared, confused and somewhat resigned. There’s another emotion lingering in his gaze, but Ford is reticent to name it even when blown pupils are more than enough of an indicator.

When Stan reaches out for him Ford’s eyes widen and he freezes in place despite wishing to do anything but. Stan blinks at him, oddly feminine in the way his eyelashes fan against his skin. “You’re being awfully nice to me.” He remarks wistfully, as if it’s something he doesn’t deserve and it makes Ford’s heart clench inside his chest. “And _something_ in my gut says that doesn't come cheap.”

Ford doesn’t even have time to react to that before Stan is moving towards him, before Stan is grabbing at his trousers like they contain all the secrets in the universe. Or a better analogy that would suit his brother, like they contain all the _money_ in the universe.

Ford reacts as one might imagine, he jumps away nearly quick enough to cause whiplash, the _implications_ of Stan’s words alone! Ford's mind whirls at those words, why would Stan think that? Why would he ever just _assume_ such a thing?

He shuffles away as best as he can with Stan's suit pants around his ankles and his boxers clinging to his body because of adrenaline spiked sweat that's drying on his skin. He gulps as Stan follows him, somehow submissive and dominant all at once. Ford gulps again as he feels his back hit the bark of a sturdy oak.

“Whatever you think this-” He gestures between them. “-is, it isn't that. You're incredibly dear to me and our relationship is, is _intimate_ but it's _not_ that kind of intimacy, I swear.”

Stanley merely frowns. “I know I'm pretty fresh to the world but I’ve seen those looks you’ve been giving me.” He tells him with a shrug that’s just a touch too casual. Ford’s immediately reminded of just how Stanley looks when he’s in the midst of a long con, when he’s trying to sell himself to a crowd, this time however that sentence is more literal than he’s ever thought it would be.  “This doesn't need to be intimate, like I don't know about what I used to be like but I get the feeling I know how it feels to take a cock in my mouth and you've been real, _real_ nice to me. Let me help you out, that way you'll have a reason to keep me around, right?”

Cold panic floods through Ford. He's seen this kind of behaviour before, he's seen it in the casual street walker he'd pass on his way to the library outside of Backupsmore. He's seen it in the alien races of dimensions he has done his best to forget over the years. Seeing it in his brother is a shock and it only makes him wonder about the life his twin has lead, makes him wonder about all the things he doesn't know and now will _never_ know.

All this is a neurological reaction, he knows. There are pathways in Stanley’s brain that have been trained to act a certain way, it’s a survival instinct, to make oneself useful to someone in a position of power. Stan is scared and vulnerable, almost like a child except, really, _really_ not if his burning gaze and dilated eyes are any indication. Stanley is reacting to stimuli in a way his brain has practically programmed into him, it probably doesn’t help that Ford himself is giving mixed messages. The kind of messages that if Stanley had ever dared to look for would’ve found years ago when they were teens, he would’ve noticed easily how Ford’s glances lingered and how his hands itched to touch him.

 It’s all perfectly logical and that _should_ give Ford some comfort but it doesn’t, it just makes him itchy and tense in a way that probably says a lot more about his psychological issues than he would care to admit.

He's panicked, paused and paralysed as a shaking aged hand brushes his thigh, as nervous eyes glint at him in the lazy summer sun. He feels warm all over, like he’s being electrocuted by Bill again. He should say something, he _must_ say something before Stan does something they'll regret, something neither of them will ever be able to forget.

'Forget', hah. And doesn't that word just yank at his spine? Doesn't that word just set his nerves on fire? He did this to Stan, he's the one that stole his mind away from him, his common sense and decency. Sure his hand shook on that gun, but he still pulled the damn trigger.

He can see the fear in his brother's eyes, he can feel himself swimming in that fear, feel himself drowning in that sensation of terror. But Stan draws ever closer, looking determined, looking ready to debase himself if only to be _useful_. It hurts him, it _hurts_ him that even with Stanley's mind erased he still hates himself enough to define his self-worth by how much he can give to those around him.

What bothers Ford the most -and god he is so selfish that it's his own feelings that hurt more- is that he's wanted this before. He's wanted Stanley before, his scent, his touch and his taste upon Ford's tongue. He's wanted this numerous times, numerous ways in the many years he's been alive. He wanted him back when college was but a day dream, he wanted him back when the science fair was a looming prospect and a promise all in one. He wanted Stanley even when he wanted anything but, even when he hated him half as much as he craved him. He even wanted him when all he could remember from their fight was searing flesh and the feeling of arriving in a new and foreign world. He wanted him even when his fear was never ending and his loneliness deep and uncomprehending.

He wants him now, even more so, in all the ways he shouldn't. In all the ways he can't.

He places a six fingered hand to Stanley's shoulder, telling him 'no' in body language before saying so with words. “ _Don't_.”

Something about Ford's deep voice seems to jar Stan from whatever trance he had been in. He looks back up at Ford and his tongue briefly comes out to lick at his lips, he looks hesitant and deeply unsure. “You want...something else? _More_ , maybe?” He questions and Ford finds himself confused for a moment before it suddenly dawns on him. Stan is _offering_ _to_ \- he bites his lip and shakes his head frantically.

This only serves to annoy Stan, he's clearly past his tipping point in regards to bullshit because he stands up to glare at Ford. The action should make Ford feel less vulnerable, less pinned down but it doesn't. “You want something from me, I can tell! I can fuckin' _smell_ it on you, just let me do something! I don't know what's going on, what this _is,_ but let me do _something_ about it. It's driving me crazy all those _looks_ you keep giving me.”

This should be the perfect moment, Ford thinks, the perfect moment to push Stanley away and explain. The perfect moment to lie and hide his feelings, his feelings which have suddenly become obvious without the guise of brotherhood to hide behind. It's the perfect opportunity to turn away from this train wreck, to avert utter disaster. But he's never been one to do as expected, he's never been one to heed sensible advice, even his own.

In retrospect maybe his whole life has led up to this, has led up to gripping his brother by the jaw and kissing him with lips chapped by dehydration, lips quivering from emotion. Maybe Bill did win in the end because _nothing_ about this feels like victory, everything about this kiss feels like heart crushing defeat.

Stan sort of teeters into the kiss, neither submerging himself fully nor trying to pull away. He looks like a man painstakingly planning out his attack strategy and it surprises Ford, he's very rarely seen that expression on his twin's face and to think it's happening during a kiss between them is...confusing to say the least.

Ford should use this moment to end what he's stupidly begun, to use this moment to break off and away. But he doesn't get the chance as he's pushed against a tree, his brother apparently deciding what Ford really wants is for the decision to be out of his hands, for Stan to take the lead. And in some ways Stan is right, in others he is wrong. He's thought about Stan in many ways over the years, in some he's the one taking control, making Ford beg for his touch. In others it's Stanley on his hands and knees, waiting for direction from Ford, waiting for orders, for his _cock_.

The decision and the kiss is however taken out of both their hands by an unlikely party; Mabel.

“Grunkle Ford?” He hears her voice call and it stills them both.

He gulps and does his best to steady his voice, he can feel Stanley breathing heavily against his side and it makes his heart stutter in his chest. “Y-yes, Mabel?”

“You guys done yet?” She asks from the other side of the tree and Ford is grateful for the lack of easy sight lines the forest breeds. “We really want to get back to the Shack.”

He looks at Stanley who eyes him with an unreadable gaze. “Give us a few more minutes, we’ll be ready soon.”

Mabel's voice doesn't call to them again, seemingly satisfied by his words. He looks to Stan and musters up as aloof a voice as he can. “Get dressed.” He tells him. “We have quite the walk ahead of us.” He continues as he steps out of Stan's pants and brushes past his bewildered twin to grab his discarded clothing. He ducks behind a tree to put them on, putting a safe amount of distance between them, it is by far the better decision.

If Ford catches the hurt look on Stan's face he doesn't mention it, if he catches the want and confusion he doesn't mention that either. It is by far the better decision, he tell himself again, the better decision for all involved, even if Stanley doesn't realise that yet he will someday.

Stan doesn’t take this passively, he has never taken being brushed off well. Some things remain consistent and this is apparently one of them, Ford realizes as an angry finger prods at his chest. “What the fuck _are_ we?” He asks, belligerent and slighted. “Tell me that much at least.”

“We’re twins-” Ford answers as he throws his trench coat on. He moves forward and places a hand on Stanley’s shoulder and looks at him reassuringly, an expression of apologetic sorrow marring his face.

Stan looks like he wants to open his mouth to speak but doesn’t, he looks like he wants to step forward and crowd into Ford’s space, but he doesn’t. He looks like he wants to run but he doesn’t, he looks like he wants to hide and _yet,_ he looks like he wants to do _nothing_ of the sort.

If Stanley ever regains his memories Ford will have a lot to answer for but he can’t help but to pray for it anyway. The chances are slim to none, the odds are low and the risk is high, it’s a bet no one in their right mind would make but he can’t help but to beg for Stanley’s memories to return. He can’t help begging for the angry quirk of lips and the punch he would receive upon Stanley relearning his life, recalling their kiss. He’d rather burn under the weight of Stan’s anger than see his brother live without the passion and personality his memories provide.

He has to shut this down now, _immediately_ , and with a heart wrenching sigh he does. He says the words that hurt him the most, he says the opposite of what he’s always wanted, he lies and he lies and he hates himself for it.

“-And that’s all we _can_ be.”

He hates himself for it, he despises his existence because he knows, oh deep in his bones he _knows_ , that that isn’t anywhere near the truth. If only on his part.

Stanley accepts the words because, despite everything, despite his earlier show of initiate, he is still vulnerable, still susceptible to manipulation in this state of diminished capacity. Despite his easy acceptance Ford doubts this will be the end of this conversation, he doubts that the matter is done with.

His brother has always been stubborn after all, memories or no, and Ford knows when he’s beat. And in this matter Ford was always going to lose, was always going to come in last, because his brother is his greatest and sweetest downfall. He just hopes when the time comes there’ll be enough of Stanley left to salvage.

He doesn’t ask for anything else, he doesn’t hope for anything else but that.


End file.
